


An Air that Kills

by louise_lux



Category: Saiyuki
Genre: AU, Edwardian Vampires, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-26 08:28:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3844063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/louise_lux/pseuds/louise_lux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The twentieth century has just begun. A reckless young man, bound for a new life in America, is stranded in a small coastal town in northern England. Whilst there he makes the acquaintance of the sinister and strange Count Nikola Hunyadi.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Air that Kills

"I can't see a thing," Thomas said, shivering under a horsehair blanket. It smelled strongly of actual horse and Thomas suspected that it had been living on the horse's back all winter. The driver, Simpson, seemed to be wearing another blanket in the form of matching hat and coat.

"It's a sea fret, sir. Sometimes they last for days," Simpson said, as the animal clopped slowly along. 

"Days?" He shivered under the blanket and a bead of condensed water dripped off his hair onto his face. He was to meet Charles in Liverpool the next day. From Liverpool they were to sail away to America. "I haven't got time to be held back by fog."

"Oh?" Simpson made a sound halfway between concern and laryngitis. "You won't be getting out of Monkspath now, not for a few days." He sounded more satisfied than he should too, it seemed to Thomas. "No one goes up on the moor when the fret's in, specially a bad one like this."

"I'm due to board ship in Liverpool on Sunday morning. I can't be delayed."

"Well. There's a pickle," Simpson said, unhelpfully. 

Thomas stared at the pearly white cloud that had settled about them. Monkspath was set high on the moors, near the coast. North Yorkshire rolled away in a blur of purple heather and ruddy-coloured wet bracken. Somewhere, the sun was out, but not here. He bit at his lip, a habit that his father had tried to beat out of him. It was a small act of rebellion, soon to be overshadowed by a much larger one. He grinned to himself, despite the damned fog. 

"I can pay them," he said.

"Won't make a difference, sir. There's more important things than money, when the fog's in."

Thomas sighed and watched as Simpson clambered out and put the drags on for the steep descent into the town. If anything, the air got colder as they lurched down from the moors and the fog grew thicker until Thomas was sure he could taste it, tainted with smoke and sea salt. 

He couldn't blame Simpson, or the fog. It was his own fault for getting stuck here, of course. He'd only wanted to stretch his legs during the long, numbing train journey down from Morpeth. Perhaps he'd wanted to take a last look at places he might never see again. Whatever the reason, the train had pulled out and he'd been abandoned on a platform in the middle of nowhere as if he were an unwanted item of luggage. That thought brought his father to mind once more. His father had always told him he was feckless and lacking in proper notions of responsibility. Like father, like son, it would appear. It would be better in America. No one would need to know anything about him.

The narrow lane wound down the hill. Just above the town they passed a large pale stone house that stood alone. Black firs rose around it and two lions rose from the fog, their jaws filled with stone teeth. They guarded high iron gates that were lashed closed with chains. 

"Who lives there?" 

"A foreign lord," Simpson intoned.

"Foreign?"

"Hi yup!" Simpson called out, and yanked on the rein. The horse whinnied slightly and heaved them forwards with a lurch. They were well past before Simpson spoke again. Thomas twisted in his seat, watching as the dark shapes of the lions were swallowed up in the fog. 

"That used to be home to Lord Howard's fifth son, until the pox took him," Simpson said. "Or at least, that's what they say was the cause. Some people like to say it wasn't anythin' so natural." 

"What do you mean?"

"He didn't rot, sir, not even a little bit."

Simpson had been amusing him with increasingly fantastic folk tales all the way across the moors, tales of kelpies and fairy folk and local maidens wickedly debauched by wolfmen. Thomas fished his hip flask from his pocket and took a mouthful of brandy, and smiled to himself.

Simpson leaned close. He smelled of woodsmoke and the dark snuff he kept in a tin box in his pocket. "The undertaker said he looked still alive when he was buried, even after five days on cold marble." Simpson shook his head. "The foreign lord arrived just on the day of his death. He's never left." 

"Oh, I see. What's the foreign lord's name?"

"He calls himself Count Hunyadi," he said. He crossed himself, briefly, and clicked his tongue at the horse. For the first time, Thomas noticed the string of beads and the crucifix that hung around his neck.

"You're Catholic, Simpson?" 

"Oh yes, sir."

"Perhaps I'll be able to meet Count Hunyadi during my stay?" Thomas said, more to tease than in all seriousness. 

"I doubt it."

"Why?"

"He don't ever come out in the day," Simpson said, and gave Thomas a dark look.

"Then perhaps I'll invite myself for dinner." 

Simpson shook his head and shivered. Thomas was sure Count Hunyadi was simply some mouldering aristocrat with a distant family connection to the Howards, but investigating that gloomy old house would provide at least some amusement, however dire. He might walk up this afternoon. His legs were still horribly stiff from sitting all day, and his backside hurt from the poor upholstery. It would be good to get his blood pumping. 

Simpson took him to the village's only inn, the Crossed Keys. A maid served him tea and sandwiches in the small and ugly lounge. He had no luggage to unpack, of course. That had gone on without him. The wainscoting was new and was varnished a garish orange-yellow. The chairs were covered in cheap velvet in a startling brown and white print. Charles would think they were horribly lacking in taste. The fire warmed him though, and the sandwiches were good. 

With food and tea inside him, and dry boots and socks, he felt much better. The inn seemed far too small, suddenly. He went to find his coat and hat and gloves. 

"You'll not be wanting to go out in this," said the innkeeper's wife. "Not at this time. It's dark."

"It's barely four," Thomas said. "I've a mind to call on Count Hunyadi," he added, curious to see her reaction. 

It was hard to believe her look of shock. What could this poor exiled man have done to earn their fear? His crime was almost certainly nothing more awful than to wear old-fashioned mustachios and to speak in a thick accent. He swung out of the door with a cheery goodbye and made his way up through the maze of tiny streets. He stopped in at the post office to send two telegrams, one to Charles and one to the station master about his suitcases. One night would make little difference, and it meant he'd be able to spend one less evening with Charles's aunts.

The fog chilled him even through his thick wool coat, but he soon began to sweat as he toiled up through the town, past small wet stone houses, their windows glowing with light. The streets were empty, and on several doors he saw that people had scrawled chalk crosses. He could hear the distant boom of a lighthouse, mournful, an aching and lonely song that perfectly matched the pleasant melancholy of his mood.

The lions sprang out of the fog with shocking suddenness, as if the mist had rolled aside to let him find them. He inspected the high gates, and found a smaller, unlocked iron gate set into the wall to the right of them. He pushed it open and walked through, watching the fog swirl at his feet. It seemed to be even thicker here. Moving forward, he stepped onto a gravel drive that must lead to the house. 

It was very quiet. He could vaguely hear the dull roar of the sea, and he became aware of the crunch of his boots. The walk to the house was taking far longer than he thought it should, from his vague impression on the ride down. He turned around, wondering if he had gone wrong, then realised that he did not know now which direction he was facing, or which way was back. He took a few steps forward and then his skin prickled with an abrupt and utter panic. Something was watching him. He was sure of it.

Thomas moved more quickly, putting his hands out now in case he walked into a wall or a tree or, or—

He almost screamed when a hand curled tight around his wrist. A man loomed out of the fog, following it. Thomas's first impression was that his skin was as white as the mist and that his hair and eyes were shadows, but that was clearly impossible. 

"You are lost," said the man, and it was not a question. He was tall and thin, with a long sharp nose and high cheekbones. His hair fell to his shoulders like raven's wings, glossy and dark. He did not look old. He was buttoned up to his throat in a severe black coat.

"I—I came to call on Count Hunyadi. My name is Thomas Greer."

"What's your business with the Count?" The man did not loosen his grip, only tightened it, and his hands were cold, so terribly cold. 

"It's nothing pressing. A social call only." Thomas felt he was babbling, but was unable to stop. He found himself relaying the story of how he got here, missing luggage and all. "I'm merely anxious to make the Count's acquaintance."

The man let go of his wrist and stepped back. "Monkspath is an excessively dull town, so I can understand that."

"I—I beg your pardon?" 

"Mr Greer, I am pleased to meet you. My name is Nikola Hunyadi." The man bowed, deep and low, and fog curled around him like wings. "I am your servant." 

He beckoned for Thomas to follow him, then walked quickly into the fog, so that Thomas had to almost run not lose sight of him in the dim grey evening. Dull light gleamed in front of them, and then Hunyadi's hand was under his elbow, urging him through the door and into the house. The hallway had a black and white marble floor and rather too many electric lights. A large chandelier hung from the ceiling, its crystal shards dazzlingly bright. Thomas blinked after the dimness.

"I apologise," Thomas began. "I didn't mean to intrude."

"You were trespassing, Mr Greer, and for this I wish to extract payment."

Hunyadi looked as pale and severe under this light as he had done outside, except that now Thomas could see the precise, flawless detail of his face and his clothes. They were severe and perfectly cut, everything neat and exactingly creased. He wore a diamond pin in his neck tie that glinted in the light. Hunyadi unbuttoned his coat with great speed and shook back his hair. Drops of water flew off. Two high spots of colour were on his cheeks, a pink blush against pale skin. He gazed at Thomas steadily. 

"Payment?" said Thomas.

"Oh yes. It is a high price." Hunyadi smiled faintly. "I would demand the price of your company at dinner." His accent was soft, to match his voice.

"Oh. I—I would be delighted, of course."

"Good." Hunyadi helped him out of his coat—there seemed to be no servants about—and hung it over a high backed chair, then led him through to the drawing room. It was papered in bright modern patterns and the windows were hung with huge and heavy black velvet curtains. The room glared with light, with lamps crammed onto every surface, as well as wall and ceiling sconces. It sparkled off crystal and silver and glass, everything highly polished and in the latest styles. Huge bookcases lined one wall, filled with ranks of books, some of them ancient looking. On the green leather-topped desk, a copy of 'Theory of Relativity' lay open, with many pieces of scribbled-upon paper pushed between the pages.

"I see you like to read," Thomas said, staring about.

"Obsessively, I am afraid. There's nothing else to do."

The effect of the copious lighting made Thomas's eyes ache, after the dull twilight, and the count watched him, a strangely happy smile spreading across his lips.

"They are the new tungsten filaments," he said, a little proudly, staring up at the chandelier. He remained unblinking for several moments. "They last. I do like the quality of light they produce."

"It's almost like daylight."

"Indeed. You look exceedingly chilled. Would you like brandy?" 

"Please."

Thomas swallowed a large mouthful. The combination of cold and Hunyadi's odd presence made him shivery and nervous. Hunyadi did not drink himself, although he held a glass. 

Over dinner, served by a grim faced white haired butler, Hunyadi did not speak very much. He seemed happy to listen to Thomas, and perhaps Thomas said too much. He talked about America, about Charles and Oxford, about his father's small church in Morpeth. He talked about his hopes for a new life, leaving out exactly why he required one. Hunyadi watched him with large and brilliant eyes, absorbing it all.

"Mr Greer, may I ask something?"

"Yes, of course."

"Where are you sleeping tonight?"

Thomas blinked. "At the Crossed Keys."

"No, you are not," said Hunyadi. 

"I don't follow, I'm afraid." 

"You are staying here, with me," Hunyadi said, very gently. "I would not dream of allowing anything else. You have nothing with you. At least let me lend you a bed and a clean shirt."

"No, really, I'd hate to impose—"

"Please, Mr Greer. I've had enough English politeness to last me several lifetimes. Say yes."

Thomas laughed, charmed. "Then of course. Thank you." 

Hunyadi smiled and they touched glasses. 

"To new-found friends," Hunyadi said. "You must stay as long as the fog is with us."

"I'm afraid that won't be long."

"Of course. Your new life is waiting," the count said, and smiled over the rim of his wine glass.

There were cigars and cognac after dinner. Hunyadi led Thomas through to his study, where a fire crackled. They sat in silence for a little while, but it was not uncomfortable. The scent of dusty paper reminded Thomas of his rooms at college and the long summer days and longer winter evenings.

"How did you come to stay here, sir?" Thomas asked, glad of the fire in the grate. The house held a deep chill that even the clanking radiators could not seem to penetrate. "It seems an odd place for a man like you."

"A man like me?" Hunyadi gazed at him through a haze of blue smoke and smiled. His voice was soft. He paused, then smiled, slowly. "Perhaps it is not so odd."

"Wouldn't London suit you better? I mean, for a man of your refinement and intellect."

"You do flatter me, Thomas. No, London would not do. Society gives me indigestion. But, yes. Sometimes I do rather feel like a frog sitting at the bottom of a well, living here," Hunyadi said, with a soft smile. "But it is nicely anonymous, and really, it is better that I do not mix in company very often."

Hunyadi smiled, showing brilliant white teeth. Thomas frowned. 

"Even if you are unhappy?"

"Happiness as an adult is relative, isn't it?"

"To what?"

"To how miserable and bereft one has been previously."

Hunyadi gazed into the fire and sipped his wine. It reddened his lips and made them wet. The golden firelight caught on his jaw and cheek, throwing shadows on the spare and elegant curves. The room seemed to sink away, leaving just the two of them in the small warm pool of light.

"I do hope you have not been very sad," Thomas said. "In the past."

"That's very kind of you." Hunyadi paused, as if considering for a moment. "Perhaps you would like to hear my story, and then judge for yourself." 

"Only if you want to tell it."

"I would like to, I think." He smiled again, down into his glass. "My family is very old. Ancient, you might say, and we have always lived in the same small area, handing down our rule father to son. Our home is on the southern slopes of the Carpathian mountains. Sometimes we have ruled. Sometimes, such as now, we are exiled. There are family feuds of all kinds. Perhaps also, we have not ruled well. That is likely." He fell silent, as if thinking. "I had a younger brother, Konstantin. Our mother died giving birth to him."

"I'm sorry."

"This was long ago, of course," Hunyadi said, and Thomas wondered how old he could be. Thirty, perhaps. It was hard to tell.

"My father was not a good man, I think. As I am not a good man. But he raised us as well as he knew how. We had a tutor and good clothes, plenty to eat, riding and hunting and healthy sports. We were loved, even if we would run away sometimes and hide in the goat sheds. Konstantin liked to plot war against the Russians and the French. I liked to read – anything and everything. We were happy, and we grew very close. Yes, perhaps unhealthily so, but we were isolated, even more so as we grew older and learned that we were different from the children in the village." Hunyadi stopped and refilled Thomas's glass. 

"My father had a disease, I suppose you could call it. He died not long after I reached my eighteenth birthday, killed by a fire in our house. It was not a happy time for us. We found out later that the fire had been set by the servants, and that we had been meant to die too. Luckily, Konstantin was a very light sleeper."

"That is terrible," Thomas said. "Why did they set it? Were they punished?"

"No. The tide of feeling had turned against us. There was resentment amoung our people. The bishops would not uphold our case, forces moved against us. We had no evidence, of course, except our own instincts."

"Instincts are useful," Thomas said, and was faced with the memory of his mother crying. 

It had been their last conversation before he'd left. He had never guessed that she could be anything other than his real mother, or that his father could ever be unfaithful. He had known she'd never quite loved him as she should, and now he knew why. He could not blame her.

"You're a very wise young man, Thomas," Hunyadi said, holding his gaze for a moment. 

"No, I'm not."

Hunyadi paused for a moment, then nodded, as if he somehow understood. "At that age, I can't say the same for myself or Konstantin. We had no skills and no experience that would help us rule. The people of the town had decided to rid themselves of us. They set another fire, some months after the first, when the first early snows had fallen. Our home was destroyed, along with many of our possessions. Konstantin made us flee that same day. I suppose he thought it too dangerous for us to stay. We crossed the mountains and made for Switzerland, where my father had banked his money, then we left for Paris."

Thomas swallowed more cognac, hardly noticing how much he drank. Hunyadi's voice was low and captivating. Thomas laid his head back and felt the words almost like a touch. 

"In Paris we made a new home, with the remnants of my father's money. Konstantin loved the theatre and the opera. I lived in the libraries and the museums. I have a great interest in chemistry and biology, and I conducted many experiments. Of course, the results were not always so happy. In any case, for us Paris was like a paradise. We thought we were safe, until the night that Konstantin was murdered."

"No!" 

Hunyadi shrugged. "Things often turn this way, it seems. Simply banishing us wasn't enough. Our people had decided that we had to die. Men had followed across the mountains, had tracked us like we were beasts." Hunyadi's knuckles were white where he clasped his glass. "It hurts me to say that my nerve fled me when I found his body, and I left Paris before dawn for Dieppe, where I bought passage on a goods boat bound for Newcastle. I stowed myself away like a lump of cargo. This town, Monkspath—It is nowhere, it is anonymous. I can hide in the fog. That is why I am here. The gendarmes never did find my brother's killer. I have had news that they suspect me."

"That is awful," Thomas said, with feeling. "Can't you go back and clear your name? Perhaps if you tell them the truth they'll listen."

Hunyadi shook his head. "Trust me when I say this is not possible."

"Well. But. How did you come to know Lord Howard?"

"I had met him in Paris, once. It was pure coincidence I found him here. "

"You should be avenged for your brother. There must be justice."

"Idealism is beautiful, Mr Greer," Hunyadi said, softly, gazing at him. "It is a precious thing, to see it in your eyes. Your passion warms me more than the fire ever could."

"Please, you must call me Thomas."

Hunyadi smiled. His teeth seemed somehow more pointed than was normal.

"Then you must call me Nikola."

"I will, Nikola." 

They smiled at each other and then Nikola stood, tall and graceful in his finely cut coat. He was the model of fashion, everything simply styled but well made in heavy dark cloth. 

"Come with me, I think it's time you slept." 

As he said it, Thomas began to feel awfully sleepy. Nikola held out his hand to Thomas, and it did not seem odd to take it—it was still cold-- and to clasp tight as Nikola led him through wide oak doors and up the broad, curving staircase. It was carpeted in red and black, in bold modern geometry. He led Thomas to the end of a long and wide first floor corridor.

"I hope Zoltan will have arranged the room to your liking." 

Nikola's fingers curled a little more tightly around his for a moment. They stood close enough that their coats brushed. Nikola had fine wide shoulders and a trim waist; a very beautiful figure of a man, Thomas thought. He moved with such great elegance. He squeezed back, wanting to chafe warmth into chilled skin.

"Nikola. I'm very glad to have met you. This place would have been awful without you."

"I hope my story did not make you too unhappy."

"No. I'm glad you could tell me."

Nikola sighed. "It is the most hellish backwater." He paused. "You never asked me why the peasants hated us so. Don't you think it's odd that the local people here think that I had some hand in Howard's death. What do you think of that?" 

It was true. He had never even questioned it. Thomas had no idea what madness made him ask: "Did you?" 

Nikola laughed. "No one has ever asked me outright before. I do like you, Thomas."

He laid a hand along Thomas's jaw and kissed his cheek, and his lips moved against Thomas's skin as he said: "Sleep well."

It was only afterwards, when Thomas lay in bed with the room spinning, that he realised Nikola had not answered his question. He fell asleep before it could trouble him, with the image of Nikola's dark and serious face before his eyes. 

***

He woke confused, not quite knowing where, or even who, he was. He'd been in some awful dream, a chase and a capture and tight arms crushing him. His skin was burning all over, from his feet to his face, and he knew with the certainty of animal instinct that he shouldn't be here. Something was very wrong. He climbed out of bed and stumbled from the room.

The house was dark, but he only fell once, at the foot of the stairs. The door opened easily and then he was plunging into the icy breath of the fog. It seemed to slide into his lungs like a living thing, licking over his heated skin, cooling his temples and the sweat on his body, rising up under his nightshirt. Stones bit into his feet as he stumbled along the path. He should go to Liverpool to be with Charles. He should not stay here. He stumbled on, and then smacked his wrist hard against something cold and solid – it must be the wall. 

Somewhere a dog howled, its voice mingling with the ghastly boom of the fog-horn. Fever seemed to burn through his thoughts. His neck prickled. He saw fog curling as if caught in a whirlwind, and then powerful arms caught him around his waist. Thomas cried out, struggling hard. 

"My dear, where are you going?" It was Nikola, holding him close. "You're soaking wet," he said, softly, and his hands tightened on Thomas's body. "I think you must have a fever." 

He lifted Thomas in his arms as easily as if he were a child and carried him away from the gates, back to the house. Thomas moaned and leaned his head on Nikola's shoulder, his strength gone. He had dim impressions of Nikola climbing the stairs and holding him tighter than ever, and somehow he could feel Nikola's breath on his neck. His nightshirt stuck to his skin, clammy and cold. 

"You're so cold," Nikola murmured, laying him on the bed and smoothing his hair back with icy fingertips. He moved away, lighting the small lamp and stoking the fire in the grate so that warm light glowed on the walls and cast orange flickering shapes into the corners. 

"I need to go to Charles. He's waiting," Thomas tried to say. 

"You should not have tried to leave," Nikola said. "You are shaking. Let me take this off you," he said. 

He ran his pale cold fingertips over the small bone buttons of Thomas's nightshirt, exploring the shape and muscle of Thomas's chest. Heat and panic settled in Thomas's stomach.

"What are you doing?"

"Touching you. Undressing you."

Thomas felt terrible lust flushing his skin, despite his chill, and Nikola made a soft noise and began to pull at his buttons. How had Nikola known? Was it so obvious?

Thomas tried to speak, to stop this, but his mouth seemed too cold to work properly. A button rattled to the floor and then Nikola was pulling his nightshirt open from his neck to his stomach, and then even further. Thomas heard cotton tearing. Nikola's breathing was harsh and fast. Warm air bathed his thighs and his stomach and his chest, and he was aware that Nikola was dragging the remains of his shirt from under his body.

"Oh, dear God. You shouldn't," Thomas said, and he caught Nikola's hand in his, in a weak grip. Nikola leaned very close, watching him with bright dark eyes. His lips were very pale, just a faint flush of pink where they pressed together. 

"Hush," Nikola said, and smiled. His teeth were almost unnaturally white, with a edge to the incisors that looked as thin and as translucent as the edge of a razor clam. "You have no proper reason to be afraid of me. Do you?"

"I—I don't know," Thomas mumbled. "No," he said.

Nikola threaded his fingers with Thomas's and stroked his thumb across the back of Thomas's hand, so slowly that Thomas drifted and almost closed his eyes. Nikola settled his weight on the bed until he was lying pressed to Thomas's side. The cloth of his coat was cool and smooth where it touched him and Thomas heard himself moan again. Nikola's breath fluttered against his cheek.

"I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to taste. I am a bad man, I know. You should never have come here."

He was dreaming; this was the most reasonable answer. These were only dreams, even if they were the wrong sort, except that now it was Nikola, not Charles, who ran his hands over his body and whispered to him. Blood pulsed and surged between his thighs, heating him, and he moved his hips in an echo of passion. 

"Oh, yes," Nikola breathed. His breath seemed as cool as a spring breeze now, caressing where it whispered against his skin. He had his mouth at the juncture of Thomas's neck and shoulder, and he nuzzled and pressed closer. He ran his hand down over Thomas's chest, barely skimming, until he reached his stomach. "How utterly perfect you are. It's been so long." 

He drifted, the weight and touch of Nikola's body against his only anchor. He opened his eyes to find that Nikola was now crouched over him on all fours and was staring down with a fixed gaze, like a big cat about to spring. 

"This is not real, of course," Nikola whispered, moving his mouth so that it hovered only half an inch from Thomas's skin. "You are dreaming."

"Yes," said Thomas, and heard his own slurred voice. "I know." 

He reached out and touched Nikola's face. His skin was soft and warmer now and his eyes seemed more brilliant and glowing. Thomas had not allowed himself any transgressions since last year. The thought of laying hands on another man terrified him. He wanted it too urgently and he loathed himself for it. Charles would keep telling him to forget such moralistic notions and to know himself, to embrace love in all its forms. It was never as easy as Charles made out.

Nikola panted against his flesh, moving his mouth down over Thomas's chest, touching each nipple, whispering across his ribs. Thomas almost cried out when Nikola licked across his manhood, his tongue warm and soft. Nikola did nothing more, only stayed like that, pressing with his wet and open mouth as if all he wanted was to feel the pulse of Thomas's blood. 

Then Nikola eased his thighs apart and knelt between them, nuzzling and sucking at the skin there in hot pulses, his mouth and nose pressed tight and close against those most intimate areas. Nikola moaned, a low vibration that sent curling bolts of pleasure to Thomas's stomach, and sucked at his inner thigh, so hard that it sent odd shoots of pain along his leg, bone deep and dizzying. His kisses there burnt and stung, but Thomas grew more lightheaded than ever, floating on the bed, arms and legs flung apart like he was a starfish, spinning like a mote of dust in the universe. Someone was calling his name, over and over, like a song of love.

***

He woke the next morning with a terrible headache and a queasy stomach. He blinked his eyes and yawned and wondered why he felt so awful. The curtains were open, showing yet more thick white fog. He found his dressing gown and slippers laid out, and a tea tray that held a steaming pot of tea and a note from Nikola. Presumably this had been delivered by the mysterious Zoltan. It was brief, written in what must be Nikola's strong slanting hand. Rust red ink spilled across the paper.

 

The fog remains. Please stay and enjoy my house. I will return this evening.

Nikola

 

Thomas sat on the bed and drank tea. He ached all over, deep in his joints, and his skin was too hot. He was relieved not to have to face Nikola. His dreams last night had been horribly vivid and shameful, although he only remembered shreds of them.

There was a basin with hot water in the taps in the small adjoining bathroom. The fittings were in bakelite moulded to look like mahogany. Thomas ran his fingers over them curiously. He did not feel like dressing, but he should. He should enquire about trains. It was not too far from here to Middlesbrough or Darlington. There should be plenty of time, if only the damned fog would go away.

He took his nightshirt off and noticed two hot red scratches on his inner thigh, like something had bitten him. Perhaps they were from fleas. He prodded them and felt a little queasy. They were tender and swollen and they itched. He dressed, taking far longer than normal, and decided to explore a little. 

On the stairs he heard a loud roaring noise. He went down slowly, with weak knees, to see Zoltan doing something to the rugs with a machine, wheeling it to and fro. It shuddered to a halt and Zoltan cursed and kicked it.

"Excuse me," Thomas said. He clung on to the banister. His head swam. "Where is your master? I wish to speak to him."

Zoltan looked up. "He's not here."

"When will he be back?"

"When it's dark," Zoltan said. His voice was rough and flat and faintly accented. "He said you should eat."

"Oh. No, I won't, I feel… " Black spots swarmed into his vision. He clung harder to the banister and dizzily saw Zoltan watching him, his expression blank. "Oh." 

His knees gave out and he fell. He was very dimly aware of being carried in strong arms, laid into bed and undressed. He drifted into a black and dreamless sleep.

Nikola was sitting at his bedside when he awoke, reading.

"Oh, no. How long have I slept?" Thomas struggled to sit up. Through a chink in the curtains, he could see dim grey light.

"All day, I'm afraid," Nikola said, putting his book aside and leaning forward. He put a hand on Thomas's shoulder and eased him back to the pillows, his dark eyes full of concern. "Zoltan tells me you fainted. I think you must have a fever."

Thomas gripped Nikola's hand. "But my boat. I must catch it."

"Hush. There's chicken broth," Nikola said. He took a damp cloth and dabbed it onto Thomas's forehead. It was wonderfully soothing. "You must eat to keep your strength up. I'm sorry I had to leave you alone. I had troublesome accounts to write today."

He helped Thomas sit up, plumping the pillows, then settled the tray onto Thomas's lap and pressed the spoon into his hand. 

"I feel so peculiar."

"You were walking in the garden last night. Barefoot and only in your nightshirt. It's no wonder you were ill," Nikola said, as if he were a governess scolding her charge.

"So that part was not a dream?" Thomas said, clutching at his spoon. 

"That part?" Nikola said, and then smiled, slowly, a frown creasing his smooth skin. "There were other parts?"

"Just dreams," Thomas said, rather hurriedly. 

"Caused by the fever, no doubt. Perhaps it is a touch of heavy sea fog to the lungs. Zoltan certainly feels it. He can get quite troublesome with it. It puts him in a sulk and he refuses to heat the steam irons to press my shirts properly."

Nikola looked perfect this evening. He glowed, almost with an inner light. His lips were red and his cheeks bore a delicate flush. His hair fell soft and smooth around his face and his long neck. He gazed at Thomas with curious intensity, eyes never leaving Thomas's face, although Thomas had to admit to himself that he did not mind. In this soft light, his eyes were a cool grey, although Thomas had been sure they were green before.

"I'm sorry for becoming a burden to you, Nikola."

"Please, you are no such thing," Nikola said, and made a gesture with his hand. "You are exactly the opposite."

"What do you mean?"

"You lift my spirits. I do not have the chance to talk very often. Especially to someone who wants to listen." 

Thomas felt his face redden as he met Nikola's eyes, conjuring his dreams once more. There'd been a dried mess on his stomach this morning. "Oh. I—Oh. I'm glad."

Nikola's hands settled gently into his lap, his fingers curling softly. They were pale and unstained with ink. He must be a very neat writer. "I'm only glad I caught you before you had scaled the wall. You had every intention of escaping from me," he said, and laughed for a little too long.

Thomas frowned. That would perhaps explain the odd scratches his inner thigh. They were still vaguely sore and he could feel them throbbing. He curled his nails into his palm as Nikola leaned forward and took the tray. He plumped Thomas's pillows again and tugged the blankets more neatly across Thomas's lap, each movement precise and graceful. Then he sat back down, an erect neat figure in the white high-backed chair. They regarded each other silently.

"Why do you stay here?" Thomas asked. His limbs were heavy and his eyes were wanting to close already. Nikola had pressed a small crystal goblet into his hand. The scent of wine rose to fill his nostrils, rich and earthy like the vineyards in late summer, vine leaves heated and scorched by the hot Mediterranean sun.

"Where else do you suggest I live?"

"America."

"Really? Do you think that is a sensible suggestion."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you," Thomas said. "Only, it's so very big. You could lose yourself there."

"As you intend to do?" Nikola said.

His gaze seemed to burn directly through to Thomas's thoughts. "I— I don't know," he stammered. 

"I'm sorry," Nikola said, in a gentle voice. "I wasn't mocking you." 

"It's all right. You're not far wrong."

Nikola's lips were a little damp from the wine he sipped. On his forefinger he wore a heavy ring, thick rose gold set with a ruby. His boots gleamed as if new and his silk neck cloth was white and stiff and fresh, as if he'd only just tied it. He moved to sit on the edge of the bed, then leaned over him and brushed a lock of hair from Thomas's brow. Thomas's heart began to beat harder and he wondered if his dreams last night were not built on some shred of truth divined from Nikola himself. His mouth dried up, so much that it was a struggle to speak.

"I will not see you again, will I?" Thomas said. "Ever."

"This is true," Nikola said, softly, gazing down at him. "I find it very sad." 

He was leaning closer, and his breath was sweet and warm on Thomas's cheek. It came faster than before. His gaze was fixed on the open collar of Thomas's nightshirt and Thomas couldn't stop the hot flush that swept him. He found himself raising shaking fingers, and then he tugged it further aside, not even properly understanding what he was doing. Nikola made a small sound, like a moan. Its effect was electric, raising each hair on Thomas's body. He stared into Nikola's eyes, into their huge pupils, and knew then, somehow, that this attraction was unnatural, even beyond the sexual part.

"Nikola…"

"You had better get out in the morning," Nikola said, very softly, watching him closely. He smiled, showing sharp incisors. "Or I do not think I will let you leave at all."

"What do you mean?" 

"You do not want to know. Sleep now," Nikola said, except his voice was deep and low, almost dreamlike. He kissed the side of Thomas's mouth, lips catching for a moment on his, and Thomas must have imagined the flick of a wet tongue tip between his lips.

"I don't want to sleep." He curled his fingers around Nikola's wrist, as tight as he could. He would not be saying this if he were in his proper mind. It was the fever. It must be. "I dreamed about you last night. You were—we were together. You touched me." 

Cool fingers touched his brow, sweeping his eyelids closed. "Be peaceful," Nikola whispered. "Sleep sweetly." His words shook.

Thomas closed his eyes, he couldn't even manage to keep them open, and sank down into the dark. 

***

The next day he was woken by the silent Zoltan, who was roughly shaking his shoulder. He blinked awake, head swimming as if he were going to fall straight back into unconsciousness. A breakfast tray stood on the small writing desk and tea sent tendrils of fragrant steam into the chilly air, waiting. Zoltan yanked open the curtains. Outside it was murky and grey, but the fog seemed less dense. His clothes were laid out, waiting, and his small valise was packed. A terrible ache of misery gripped him and he wanted to wail. He barely even understood why. He remembered Nikola leaning over him, his words and his touch.

"Where is your master?" Thomas said, heaving himself upright. The room spun briefly and black dots crawled over the edges of his vision. 

"He's not here."

"Please, is your master in the house? I need to see him." 

Zoltan gestured brutishly at the breakfast tray. A letter was tucked next to the toast rack. Thomas stumbled out from the bed and grabbed it, breaking the red wax seal. He collapsed into the small chair and stared at it.

 

Leave, before the sun sets. The fog is lifting. Do it as soon as you have the strength, or even if you have not. My man will take you to Darlington. I cannot see you again. 

Nikola

 

"Where is he?" 

But Zoltan only would shake his head.

Thomas washed and shaved. The small wooden mirror reflected his own shockingly white face back at him, framed with the locks of red hair that now he knew he had inherited from his real mother. A hot spurt of anger made him clutch the basin and he wanted to cut it all off. His eyes were rimmed with red and there was a sore ache on his neck. He pulled his nightshirt back with fingers that shook. There were two neat red holes there, dark with scabbed blood, and around them the skin was red. He dragged his nightshirt off and inspected his body. There were two marks the same by his left nipple – bite marks. They were too large for any insect to have made them. Cold sweat broke out on his forehead and his palms, and he thought of Nikola pressing him down into the pillows, touching him, and Thomas wanting it. 

"Oh, God help me," Thomas whispered. "Damn it all." Tears ran hot down his face and he scrubbed at them. "Why did I ever meet you?" 

There was a clean shirt laid out, and fresh underclothes of thin fine cotton. It could only be Nikola’s own. He dragged on his clothes and forced himself to drink the tea and eat the eggs and the porridge and the toast, all the while staring at the letter. The food tasted of nothing, but afterwards he felt a little stronger, although still faint. Zoltan waited at the door, staring at the carpet. The house, polished and perfect, was silent around them as if sleeping shadows lurked in every corner.

Outside in the courtyard a vehicle was waiting, a black Model T Ford that must have been brought here all the way from America. Its rumbling, labouring heart filled the courtyard with a smell not unlike burning pitch and its sides gleamed like a black beetle. A dark-browed man sat in the front, his face set and still like a white mask. 

There was no time to marvel at the car; the sun was lowering and his nerves screamed at him to leave. Something was wrong with this place. 

Nikola did not come to say goodbye. Zoltan slammed the door shut almost on Thomas's fingers, then pounded on the side. They left Monkspath with a roar, toiling up the steep bank onto the moors just as the sun was lowering into the west. As they rose out of the valley, the fog fell away, and out of it came bounding a huge white wolfhound, as if the fog itself had come to life. It chased the car for several moments, then howled and fell back. Thomas hung out of the window to see it standing in the middle of the lane, watching.

The journey to Darlington was tedious and bitterly cold, but Thomas was glad of it. The driver would barely speak, except to say that he was from the village. He tried not to think of Nikola, but failed. He dug out his diary and then put it away again after staring at the blank pages for minutes on end. He took Nikola's letter from his breast pocket and read it again, then tucked it inside, then shoved it deep into his bag. 

He sent a telegram to Charles from Darlington. He would catch a sleeper train and would reach Liverpool by dawn. The journey was slow and noisy and he hardly slept. Nikola seemed to be with him still, somehow

Charles was waiting in the hotel lobby, as they had arranged, his blond hair cut into a new short and neat style. He looked as dashing as he ever had, and he laughed as he pulled Thomas into a rough bearhug. 

"You look simply awful," Charles said, pushing him back by the shoulders to examine at him. "What on earth have you been doing?" 

"Nothing very much," Thomas said, letting Charles's energy and life wash over him. "I was ill for a little while. I'm better now."

Charles gripped him by the shoulders and stared at him with such earnestness that Thomas had to drop his eyes. "If you'd missed the ship I don't know what I would've done."

"I know. I'm here now. Is your mother here?" 

"Yes, and my aunts. Come on, they have an insane urge to feed us teacakes and crumpets and other wildly exotic English food, as a sort of last rites."

He followed in Charles's laughing, happy wake, feeling as if he were in a dream still. Their luggage had been loaded the day before. Charles's mother embraced them both, and there were some tears, not all on the parts of the women. After the teacakes, and much fussing and promises to write every week, all that was left to do was board. The ship was called The Carpathia. Thomas stopped and stared.

"What's wrong?" Charles said, tugging him up the broad gangplank. "Come along!" 

"Nothing."

Once boarded, they crowded to the rail and gazed down together at the docks. Several bands were playing, all trying to compete to make the loudest noise. The docks were lined for hundreds of yards with well wishers. It would be foolish to expect to see just one person, and yet he still kept staring. The sky was getting lighter over stately dock buildings. It was nearly dawn. The docks slid past as if they and their cargo of people were moving, rather than the ship.

A hound bayed, loud enough to carry over the water. It was huge and white, the same one that had chased after the car. It bounded along the dockside for a little way, until it stopped by a tall, slim man. Thomas stared. Nikola was dressed in smart modern clothes. He was not unusual in any way, and yet even surrounded by people, he seemed set apart from the crowd. He looked like the only real thing on the quayside, a sparkling sharp figure pasted over a dull grey background. 

Thomas's palms grew clammy. He could feel Nikola's presence, his touch and his words, could feel it as though Nikola was standing next to him. He shuddered and almost moaned. How had he not known? Seeing him here, among a crowd, it was now that Thomas understood. Nikola was not human. 

Nikola was holding an umbrella in one hand, high above his head to deflect the rain. He lifted his other and waved, once. Even from here it was easy to see his pallor. Thomas raised his hand, staring. 

"Who's that?" Charles asked, pressing against his side. 

"I don't know," Thomas said, struggling to keep his voice steady. "I don't think I ever truly found out."

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Indelicate Ink, for her donation to Sweet Charity. Thank you very much to Daegaer and to Emungere for patient and thoughtful betaing.


End file.
